Enter, Stage Left
by comete
Summary: Deacon is on a stakeout when something odd happens.


"Okay, you'll like this one. Alright, Glory, what's the best part about gardening? Huh? The best part is getting down an' dirty with all your hoes. Eh? Eh? Come on, that one wasn't even that bad. I have more, but please, contain your hysterical laughing for the end. Oh, you already must be. You make a great audience, very professional. Over."

Deacon removed his finger off the red button of his walkie-talkie, ceasing the communication on his end with the typical left cornered smirk that he wore as a brand. Sitting in the middle of a forest watching an odd little robot with binoculars in one hand and a freely working walkie wasn't exactly high-quality entertainment, but he tried his best.

Nearby some yards was Glory and Tinker-Tom prodding at an electrical box that once was used as a telephone line before the bombs fell, now knocked down to the ground, scooping out the insides and talking whatever red and blue wires that seemed well enough to be salvaged. Tom was convinced that the phone poles near Sanctuary were, somehow, involved in some big conspiracy. Yep, telephone poles were now the enemy. Something about how the power lines carry messages to the Institute and in the electrical boxes held comm-devices.

Dez didn't want to send Tom at all, but he insisted that he had to be the one to go on the recon mission to unveil the dastardly plans of the dreaded telephone lines. Deacon, however, found it awfully suspicious that Tinker-Tom's sudden wacky conspiracy against electrical boxes surfaced the second the group had uncovered a Sno-Cone machine that was near one of their dead-drop locations. And, even more suspiciously, the machine of syrup and sugar was missing only a few essential wires.

Convenient.

Glory was assigned by Desdemona to tag along, almost as punishment to Tom for wasting their time, even though there wasn't anything for the Railroad workers to do but stand around and sleep. They had no leads on the Institute's location and the more, er, "essential" members sat around bored to tears from lack of work. There were only so many Robco mines that could be swept on a terminal before one started to fantasize about stepping on a real mine to at least give them something else to focus on instead of boredom.

Deacon waited a few seconds for a response from Glory, who watched Tom riffle through an electrical box that had been submerged in some damp brown and red leaves in the center of the thick Autumn plagued forest. "Glory? Come on. Okay, fine. Have you heard the one about the BDSM-cowboy-ghoul-girl and the Legionary soldier? Over."

Glory responded on the radio, harshness seeping through the speak-box with annoyance thick, "Deacon! Shut. The. FUCK. Up. What is it doing now? Are you even watching? Over."

The black wigged man peered into the binoculars once more, sighing at the missed opportunity to tell a classic joke. He looked back through the magnified glass at the Mr. Handy unit that now- big shocker- was still sweeping the same place of cracked sidewalk that clearly wasn't being rid of radiation damage any time soon. The robot used his extended claw to grip a wooden-handled broom, sweeping back and forth like a pendulum. It was almost hypnotizing, watching the repeated motion that didn't change in rhythm for even a millisecond.

Deacon held the black walkie to his lips, holding down the button to reply with a purposeful deadpan tone. "Yup. Stiiiiill sweeping. And you know what he was doing yesterday? And the day before? Yup, you guessed it. Sweeping. Ding-ding-ding! The same fucking spot. Oh, but maybe tomorrow it'll change it up. Who knows? Maybe he'll sweep the road in one place for a month. Come on, Glory, I'm wastin' my time with this thing. I think the unit is busted or just really has a thing for sweeping. Like, to the point it's creepy and it needs to seek out professional help. Over."

Glory stood over Tom who was nearly done assaulting an innocent electrical box, humming to himself a pre-war tune that he had heard at least a solid thousand times on the Diamond City Radio broadcast. She shook her head and fiddled with adjusting her armor plate, her own patience of both of the men growing thin.

"It's not my decision and you know that, Deacon. One of these days maybe he'll do something shady, I don't know. We know it's at least functioning when it comes to communication, though. We sent a foot soldier to pretend to be some lost settler, someone from Abernathy farm I think his backstory was. He questioned the bot and it was super cryptic about waiting for someone. We need to keep tabs. You know why Dez has had you watching the unit and not anyone else, right? Over."

Deacon pondered the question for a moment. Well, obviously, he was the best of the best in the Railroad and everyone else couldn't compete with his awesome spying skills. That had to be it. Nobody simply could compare to his master skills, handsome good looks, and sharp wit.

"Uhhhhh, because I'm amazing in every way and a true specimen of perfection? Keeping me in HQ holed up is just as much of a crime as the nukes falling. Not exposing my excellence to the public? Ah, it's a crime against humanity. Over."

Tinker-Tom snickered as he stood up from his place on the ground, dusting off his mud-caked overalls with his equally filthy oil-stained hands after he stuffed his pockets full with pre-war wires. Glory shot the man a look, which caused Tom to shrug with a small laugh. "Hey," Tom raised his hands up in a defensive position to shield himself against the Glory Glare, "you did ask him."

Glory let out an exasperated breath, but found comfort in her own quip of the man that she relayed via the communication device. "No. Because we would all willingly surrender to the Institute if we had to be around you for more than a day. We can't do the puns, jokes, or inappropriate speculation of what would happen if we installed an anal fisting program into P.A.M. for more than an hour. Also, seriously, Deacon? Thank God there aren't any Synth children around to try and join the cause or we may have CPS emerge from a vault and rescue them. Over."

Deacon grinned at his own recalling of antics while he gazed through the binoculars. Things would definitely be more entertaining if P.A.M. did a little more than predict the future. If they wanted to be told some vague guess of what they would eat for tomorrow's breakfast, they could've just taken up Tarot card reading. "Hey! Excuse me for trying to bring a little life into our lives! Besides, I didn't say anyone else had to try it. Over. Bend Over. You get it? Over, over. For real this time. Over."

Glory responded, cringing at the statements just made while Tom gave her a thumbs up in signal that he was ready to leave, "I don't need to be told what I'm having for breakfast because I think I just threw up mine and won't be eating for a while. Anyway, Tom is done collecting his, uh, wires that are totally NOT going to be used for Nuka Slushies. Need anything else before we leave? Over."

Deacon gave a shrug, though nobody was (hopefully) there to view it. Lowering his magnified vision, he sat back in the red cushioned chair and propped his feet up onto the half-assed nailed together wood shack. Just a few boards, a roof, and a metal end table that held only two containers of water. "Nah," he replied, "Unless you want to come shoot me and put me out of my misery? I don't know how much longer I can watch this thing sweep before you find me vacuuming the grass alongside 'em with a pet rock that I am engaged to giving me pointers on how to get all the dirt up. Over."

Glory began walking with Tom away from the nearby Vault that rested a good distance away. She did have to admit, it seemed cruel to make Deacon sit in one spot like a good boy and do nothing but observe. Not even an outfit to change into and disguise himself as anything other than himself. But, Glory knew her words also had truth in them. Deacon was great to relieve some stress with a few canned jokes, sure, but he wasn't meant to be around people who were already stir crazy and stressed to the point of shaking. The Institute was still as mysterious to them as a few months ago and with Synth refugees sobbing over the details of their escapes in the underground dusty basement- well, it's just easier if the venting sessions weren't filled with a man-child asking to play, "smell my finger."

"As much as sometimes I want to take you up on that offer, we're gonna head back. We'll still be able to get a signal for about half of a mile. You're scheduled for this watch for a few more hours and then you're free. Just make sure you stop by HQ before the end of the week or Dez will be worried. Stay safe, Deek. Over and out."

Deacon sat the walkie-talkie on the table next to him, drumming his fingers on his own right forearm as he sat with his feet up and arms crossed. Boredom, boredom, boredom. Nothing to entertain him short of taking antenna silenced sniper shots at any radroach that scampered around the forest. His days recently had been filled with waking up, watching a robot sweep, and going to bed. Not even a reason to get all dolled up in some elaborate outfit. God, Dez sure was killing him.

Deacon pulled from his pocket a crumpled piece of paper that contained crudely written (and punchlined) jokes that he had either heard from blending in at loud taverns or some he had thought of himself. He pulled a dulled yellow pencil that happily said, "General Atomics: A Family!" in bubble-letters. He went over a few of the knock-knock jokes, then skimmed his sunglass shaded eyes down to the bottom of the paper that posed an unfinished question. "What do you get when you cross a Brahmin with a pissed off Ghoul?"

He thought hard, his comedy being a craft that required dedication, the blood of his enemies, sweat, and, uh, also the tears from his enemies because he didn't cry. Ever. Well, except for that one time he read a dime novel about an Old World runaway twenty-something dame looking for love in the big city- but that was just the one time!

He chuckled lightly to himself as the answer to the scribbled question came to him. Eh, it kinda made sense if you squinted. He raised his left hand to the paper he held in his right, prepared to deliver the comedy gold, but was interrupted by something strange.

The ground? Yeah. That was shaking. Big time.

It shook the small shack he had made, shaking the chair he resided in, and sure as hell vibrated some leaves lose from the trees above him. Deacon jumped to his feet quickly, letting the paper and pencil hit the pallet-made floor without a second thought. He grabbed his sniper rifle that was resting in the corner of the shack, slinging it over his right shoulder and covertly making his way behind a tall oak tree that seemed unbothered by the fact that there was a hard gear grinding noise nearby that appeared to be the owner of whatever was shaking the Earth.

Deacon advanced more and more through the forest, stopping every few oaks to hide behind, check to see if the coast was clear, then move up to another tree before he rinsed and repeated. He didn't know what the hell was causing such a racket, especially being in such a secluded area away from any local settlements that could cause noise.

The spy found himself at the source of the noise before too much longer, hiding behind a log that must've not been as lucky as his friends who were still standing. Out in the open, without the blanket of the forest to shield away from the harsh sun, a man in a prominent blue and gold body jumpsuit laid rested on the steel center of the Vault's elevator that was now raised even to the ground and silent.

He was positioned on his knees with his palms flat against the cold silver metal, arms extended in propping himself up to keep from falling on his face. He breathed hard, ragged breaths pumping his out of his mouth while beads of sweat formed on his forehead.

Deacon had a good view from a safe distance, keeping silent as he had done for intel gathering so many times previously. The man was distressed, clearly. Pale as a sheet of paper and shaking worse than the ground had done only a minute ago.

Deacon knew better than to emerge from his hiding place and figure out what the hell was going on, staying behind the petrified wood with a curiosity of the next step this Vault Dweller would take. He must've been down there a while, watching as the blue-suited man wildly looked around his surroundings as if to get a grip on reality.

It took a few minutes of calming his breathing down and collecting himself before the man stood up from the metal, taking a few shaky steps north off of the elevator and towards the hill clearing of the land before him. "Oh, God. Oh, Christ. This isn't real. I-I am dreaming. This- oh. It's all gone."

This spiked confusion in Deacon's brain. All gone? What? This dude's sanity was the only thing that seemed to be "all gone."

The Vault Dweller moved from the clearing, going left just past Deacon and heading down through the woods near the population of one robot settlement, also known as Sanctuary. Deacon pressed himself against the wooden log as to not be seen when the man passed him, blindly looking straight ahead with emotions that were going for a rollercoaster ride as the exposure of the new world.

Deacon removed himself from the log and slowly stood once the man was starting to leave his sight in the distance, but not before the man paused at Deacon's small shack with water that laid in front of him. Without question or consideration, the Vault suited man snatched the purified container of water from the table and eagerly gulped it down in a few seconds flat. He huffed hard when he emptied the container, mouth having been bone dry to the point it had hurt to speak even a few words. The man tossed the container to the ground and began making his way towards Sanctuary, but he stopped in his tracks once more as a small piece of lined, crumpled paper that laid on the ground caught his eye.

He reached down to the paper that had been tossed to the ground, picking it up with his adrenaline shook hands and reading a few of the odd questions on the paper. He read allowed, hoping it made more sense out in the open. "What do you call a very fun bachelor party for a two-headed buck? A rad-rad-stag-stag party… What?"

Deacon had to bite his tongue and cover his mouth with both hands before he would blow his cover from bursting out laughing at his own joke. Okay, to be fair, that one was killer at parties.

The man, confusion starting to come in increasingly larger doses, stuffed the paper into his back jumpsuit pocket and began his trek down the steep hill to his familiar home that he prayed was still standing.

When the man was gone, mentally cursing him for taking all of his good jokes with him, Deacon pulled out his walkie with excitement and chirped fast. "Glory! Glory! Come in. Come in. Come in. You aren't going to believe this. Over."

It was only a few seconds that passed before an answer was heard on the other end, though static plagued the airwaves due to the growing foot distance between them. "What is it, Deek? Robot started sweeping in the other direction? Over."

Deacon rolled his eyes. No, this was way bigger than that. This was huge. "Okay, so what is the scoop on Vault 111? The one you were near just a little bit ago? Over."

Glory responded with a tone of wonder. What had Deacon so excited that he was nearly breaking the talk button to chat with her. "Uhhhh, it's abandoned. We've had people go in, check it out. People are deceased in some pods or something, but it's deader than Carrington's love life. Why? Over."

Deacon grinned, confirming what he had guessed from the intel that was relayed to him months ago. Cocking his head to the side, knowing his stakeout just got a little more interesting, he replied. "Okay, not to be dramatic or anything, but you'd better find a bush because you're about to shit your pants. Also, I had this killer joke. The punchline is Mad Cow Disease. Don't let me forget. I didn't have a chance to write it down. Over."


End file.
